


Elemental

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Desert, Frottage, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demoman and Sniper share some time together in bed, in each other’s arms, in the throes of passion.  Outside, the desert boils away everlasting, party to their jubilation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elemental

“Yer so perfect, ye know that?” Demoman moaned his words against warm, soft skin.

“Always say that,” Sniper replied, craning his head to allow his lover better access to his bare neck.

“'S always true, love.”

A broad, rough hand wrapped around the Scotsman's aching erection, pressing it close in its grip against the assassin's, the shared heat of their need practically searing his flesh, driving him to move. His breath hissed in gently, leaning back to look down at the supine bushman beneath him, flushed and sweaty, completely disheveled, and knowing it was all his doing. Those narrow blue eyes squeezed shut as soft panting breaths pushed through grit teeth, Sniper's sharp canines catching the noon-day light streaming in through the large window beside their bed.

He was a thing of perfection, beauty, he might hazard, but certainly of a rugged masculinity untainted by stoicism. His beloved Sniper was laconic, withdrawn, but certainly, beneath lay a creature of love and lust and life, a flower that blossomed at only his touch.

Soft lips brushed that soft, tanned neck, cheek brushing stubbly cheek, his muttonchops tickling the thinner man's jaw. He tasted of salt and wood smoke and something far too ephemeral to quantify. It was simply his taste. Hot breaths rolled between those lips against that soft skin even as the slim Australian shivered and quaked beneath him, his hand squeezing them, holding them so close, stroking them together in a shared rhythm, a simultaneous heartbeat they could feel against each other.

“Yer so gorgeous. So feckin' perfect. Nnh, oh God. Oh shite.”

An element of nature itself, the bushman was the very avatar of the desert itself. He was the warm winds blowing through, migratory and capricious, stealing his breath with its heat and persistence. He was the hot desert sun, boiling away at his mind, driving him to distraction. He was the bright blue sky, stretching forever before his eyes, unending and ever present in the heavens, looking down over him even when he could not see him. He was the sand and the soil, the earth itself, dry and plain, with hidden beauty the further down one dug.

And here, in the king-sized bed in his master-sized bedroom in his mercenary-sized mansion, he had tamed the winds, the sun, the sky, the sand. He had brought that desert to bear beneath him, groaning, gasping, simultaneously conquering and merging with him, giving in to the warmth, the desolation, the perfect harmony of nothingness. His words eroded away, losing form, losing meaning as he was reduced to mere animal groaning to articulate his ecstasy, his release, his surrender to the elements. His death by exposure.

Sniper followed shortly after, the needy kisses, the broad hands petting him all over, the mumbled attempts at words that he knew were intended to be more loving compliments all making his heart soar as high as his own pleasure, only without the roller-coaster drop down when his climax arrived, leaving him sticky, panting, and being aggressively cuddled by his one-eyed lover.

“Perfect,” he heard the Scotsman mumble between kisses that trailed up his shoulder.

“Yeh, you are,” he replied, capturing those soft lips in a kiss, one arm still pinned between them, the other snaking up to scratch lovingly at the back of Demoman's head.

Stillness fell over them, a comfortable exanimation shrouded in the cool shadows of thick clouds rolling in to chase the sun outside. Not to chase the sun. Those dark avatars of tumult, those shifting, roiling, ever-changing, ever-moving heralds of the storm simply chased the harshness of the sun. Their dark shadow took the pain, the agony, the ruin of that sprawling, lonely desert. They brought the rains, brought the cracked sand and the hot stones what they truly needed. They brought it life.

**Author's Note:**

> requested by an anonymous Tumblr user


End file.
